


roll like a rolling stone

by Idday



Series: raising hell all over town [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Rule 63, Women in the NHL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 07:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11076447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: After the combine, Jack drives herself out to a strip mall north of Boston, parks in front of the little nail salon that nobody else knows that she knows about.When she has the choice, she keeps her nails like this—long, just this side of sharp, painted a deep red....(She fights for what she has. She has to.)





	roll like a rolling stone

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE GOD do not continue on if you are/know anybody above. Research was minimal and events have been changed or invented for ease of plot, but also this is genderbent af and I really cannot emphasize enough how fictional this is. 
> 
> Underage drinking, references to underage sex. All explicit sex in the story occurs when the characters are over 18. As always, let me know if additional tags or warnings should be included.

After the combine, Jack drives herself out to a strip mall north of Boston, parks in front of the little nail salon that nobody else knows that she knows about.

When she has the choice, she keeps her nails like this—long, just this side of sharp.

She doesn’t hesitate, this time, when the woman asks what color she wants. Last summer, it felt cheap, unearned. Not this time.

She points to ‘Boston University Red.’

She may not know where she’s going, but she knows where she’s from.

…

Sunrise, Florida is nothing much special.

It’s better than Buffalo—they hate her there, have since May, even though she’ll put on their jersey in a few days. It might be because she’s a woman, might be because she’s not Connor McDavid.

Probably a little bit of both.

Someone in the airport is holding up a sign for her—‘Jacqueline Eichel.’ She smiles the non-smile that carves dimples next to her mouth.

“It’s Jack,” she says, and carries her own bag to the car.

…

On the boat, she clicks her nails against the railing, purposefully annoying, until Crouse actually gets up and moves.

The worst thing about getting them done—the way that guys always ask her stupid questions about it. _Can you open a beer? Can you type?_

What they’re not asking— _can you play hockey?_

She can, more or less. She doesn’t keep them done for the season, but with her gloves on, she manages well enough. Better than most of them.

Connor McDavid is looking at her hands. She straightens her fingers, color flashing bloody in the sun. Gives him a hollow, closed-mouth smile.

_All the better to claw your eyes out with, my dear._

…

(Connor McDavid looks at World Juniors, too.

They’re underage, significantly so, but they play hockey and so the bartender doesn’t blink. Leaned up against the bar waiting for the bartender to take her order, Jack is surprised by Virtanen’s voice and pretends that she isn’t.

“You’re hotter than I thought you’d be,” he blurts, half drunk, and over his shoulder Connor McDavid shakes his head like he’s embarrassed to be in proximity.

Jack lets her eyes drop, drags them up Virtanen’s body slowly—not in the way she does when she’s trying to hook up, but in the way that makes it very clear that she’s cataloging all the soft spots in his body, all the places to best sink in a blade.

Or the sharp heel of her shoe, the ones that make her as tall as he is.

She knows how she looks, like this—intimidating, unimpressed. She’s practiced in the mirror.

The bartender comes back, and Jack ignores the rest of the orders she’s supposed to pick up, says, “I’ll have a double of your best Scotch, neat, and he’s paying.” Jerks her thumb at Virtanen, turns and clicks away on her heels without saying another word.

Virtanen delivers her drink five minutes later, shamefaced, to the hoots of the American squad. Still at the bar, Connor McDavid takes a sip of his water—with or without vodka, Jack doesn’t care to guess—and holds her eye. He doesn’t look away.)

…

Her Marlins jersey is almost obscenely feminine, nipped in at the waist, missing the top few buttons, in stark contrast to the rest of the guys’.

Noah laughs when he sees it, laughs harder when she pulls off her top and hits him in the face with it, pulls on the jersey instead.

Crouse averts his eyes, blushing, like the kid’s never seen a bra before.

She’s not ample enough to spill out of the deep-V—if she was, she would be. She doesn’t smile at the stadium people.

She keeps her face stony under the regulation ballcap, shadows making her look harsher even than normal when she catches her own reflection in Marner’s mirrored sunglasses.  

He says something about her RBF, under his breath, like she’s not supposed to hear, and for the first time all day she could almost smile with it.

“Baby,” she says, and he startles as she loops an arm around his shoulders, pinches too hard at the soft skin of his arm, “please. This is active bitch face.”

…

(There’s a prospects game, and Konecny refuses to pass to her.

She cusses him out when she gets back to the bench, harsh enough that Marner looks over, two players away, says, “Dude, take it easy.”

It’s an exhibition. Jack clenches her jaw.

Like she’s gotten where she is by ever once taking it fucking easy.

Noah, placid, hoses off his neck and then passes her the water bottle.

“Get me the goddamn-motherfucking-Jesus-loving puck,” she says to Konecny, level, “Or I swear to our sweet Lord in heaven that I will feed you your own fucking spleen.”   

He gets her the goddamn-motherfucking-Jesus-loving puck.

She scores.

Marner eyes her warily in the locker room, post-game.

“So I’m a bitch,” she finally sighs, sports bra and spandex and no fucking patience. She holds up a finger when Knott opens his mouth, because surely they’ve had the sensitivity training. “I’m allowed to call me a bitch,” she informs the room, “you’re not allowed to call me a bitch.”)

…

Dylan Strome throws a party.

Dylan Strome is, generally speaking, not the kind of guy that would throw a party that Jack would want to attend, but Noah wants to go and there’s also nothing else going on in Sunrise, Florida.

Jack pulls on her tightest jeans and goes to the fucking party.

It’s the six of them, has been all week.  Nobody else is there yet. It’s a party simply by the virtue of there being music and alcohol, and Dylan Strome wants to play ‘never have I ever.’

Jack heads them all off at the pass, asks the question she already knows is coming: “Never have I ever fucked a teammate.”

Marner coughs, Crouse blushes again.

Dylan Strome takes a drink.

Noah casts her a sideways glance and she narrows her eyes at him, because they both know that it didn’t count, with Matts.

…

(It doesn’t count, with Matts, after World Juniors, after they blow themselves out of the fucking tournament. She’s already at BU, and there are no more games to play.

Mostly, he’s big and strong and she’s drunk, curious whether he can actually hold her up against the wall and fuck her.

He can.

It’s a stupid move, admittedly, at the beginning of her career with so much to lose.

Even if she didn’t trust him already, though, Jack knows Matts will never tell. Kid puts the ‘ho’ in hockey, and she knows enough to bury him. He ever tries to spill, and she’ll ruin his life. They both know it.

They both like it.)

…

It’s a boring party, as far as parties go.

They all get tipsy, learn that Strome has tried anal and that Crouse has kissed a boy and that Marner has jerked off to a highlight reel.

Crouse tries to call Jack out, a cheap shot, “never have I ever made out with someone in this room,” and Strome and Marner don’t look at each other when they drink.

With Noah… she considered it, once, when he’d rolled up to the beach for a party on the Fourth, wearing nothing but sunglasses and an American flag tied around his waist with his stupid, Abercrombie model abs, looking like a patriotic wet dream.

Then she’d fucked one of his friends to take the edge off, and they’d laughed about it, and he’s still one of the only people who actually gets her, actually _likes_ her.

She rolls her eyes, doesn’t drink.

…

(They lose to Canada, at World Juniors, before the bracket is even established.

She takes her helmet off in the handshake line, sweaty and matted as her hair is.

She likes these boys to know who they’re playing with.)

…

The game falls apart. They’re drunk, and Strome makes an off-color joke.

It happens.

It’s unsurprising, and uncreative. She’s been told to expect it for years—from her parents, her coaches, from every guy she’s played with. From herself in the mirror every morning.

It still makes her itch to slap him, a low, deep urge that lives in the palm of her hand.

She takes a drink, doesn’t break his gaze even when he realizes what he said, and who he said it in front of.

“Dude,” Noah says, irritated and reliable in his defense of her as always, “what the fuck?”

Connor McDavid turns his head away, flexes his hand.

Dylan looks startled, afraid, a deer about to be driven off a cliff. She doesn’t shove. She just… stays quiet, lures him into security. Doesn’t look away. And then…

“You don’t impress me,” she says, words carefully sharpened in her mouth, and _there._ Over the cliff he goes.

She can make him flush as pink with her words as she could with her hand. She wonders if he’d like being slapped. She wonders if she could make him beg for it.

Men are so fucking easy.

Dylan Strome strikes her as the type who is just aching for a woman to be mean to him in the right sort of way.

Marner makes a low sound, possibly of disbelief. Jack shrugs, unconcerned.

“You don’t impress me,” she repeats, and Dylan shudders, and if she said, _but I’ll let you try,_ if she took him to her room and put him on his knees and made him work for it, he would go and he would thank her, later.

Men are so. Fucking. Easy.

…

(They end up in adjacent booths, at that bar, at World Juniors, all the good Canadian boys crammed into one, all the Americans—plus Jack—in the next one over.

Jack sips on the drink Virtanen delivered, likes the way it tastes like smoke her in mouth the same way her words feel leaving her, something beautiful in the meanness of it. She’s in Noah’s lap, and he drinks the Cosmo that Werenski bought Jack as a joke.

She takes Zach’s hat for punishment, wears it backwards and snugged down over her curls. “Stealing other people’s hats is Jack’s bad drunk habit,” Noah informs him gravely, when Jack snags it, and she shrugs in acceptance.

Sideways across Noah like this, she can glance over her shoulder, catch Virtanen’s skittish gaze.

“That,” she says, loudly enough to carry, “and making boys cry.”

Connor McDavid is on the close side of the Canadian booth, near enough that Jack could reach out and touch him without making an effort. He tilts his head when she says it, like he’s listening, but she can’t see his face.

Seeing Virtanen’s is enough.

The back of Connor McDavid’s neck is a foot from Jack’s elbow where it’s slung around Noah’s shoulders. She works very hard not to reach out and press her fingers there, at the base of his skull, just to see how it would look.)

…

Jack has her own room, because she’s the only top prospect with a pair of tits.

She kicks her shoes off back in her room, strips out of her jeans and her shirt and her bra, collapses across the bed naked. Buzzed, she reaches between her legs—the touch is almost a relief.

She’s wet enough that the first tentative stroke of fingers across her cunt is slick, satisfying. She circles her clit a few times, light pressure, slips a finger inside just to have something there.

There’s a knock on the door.

Semi-dazed, Jack grabs a hotel robe, ties it too loosely around her waist.

Connor McDavid is at her door. She’s not surprised; she’s not unsurprised. He’s holding a pair of sunglasses.

“You left these in Stromer’s room,” he says.

They’re not hers, and they both know it.

She props a hip against her half-open door, rests her hand above her head. Her fingers are still wet. She wonders if he can tell. His gaze catches on the gaping neck of her robe where it threatens to slip open, so… maybe.

“Those are Crouse’s,” she tells him. He pretends to make a study.

“My mistake,” he says. His voice, as always, is deeper than she expects it to be, and he doesn’t leave.

“I was busy, McDavid,” she says finally, “so come or go.”

She steps back into her room, half an invitation, half an excuse.   

“Busy,” he echoes. “Anything you need a hand with?”

He follows her in.

…

(Jack is grateful to Sid Crosby, she’s not afraid to admit it. Before Crosby shattered that particular glass ceiling, there was no room in the league for girls like Jack.

Not that there’s much room, still, but. Jack’s never been afraid to elbow her way in, to make herself space.

Crosby made it… not easy, to break in. If it was easy, Jack wouldn’t have been one of just a handful of girls in Ann Arbor, wouldn’t be the only woman on the US World team. Wouldn’t be the only woman projected in the top round.

It’s never been easy. It never will be.

Crosby, at least, made it possible.)

…

Jack sits back on her bed, lets her legs part just a little. The slit on the robe exposes one thigh, too high.

“What’s the play?” McDavid asks, no hesitation. Jack likes it best like this, when there’s no playacting, no shyness. When they both know what’s at stake.

“How about you finish what I started,” she says, “and we’ll go from there.”

…

(Being grateful doesn’t mean that Jack owes Sid Crosby a single damn thing, and it doesn’t mean that she has to emulate her, either, the Canadian geniality, the aw-shucks interviews, just one of the guys.

Jack’s never met a mold that she didn’t want to smash, a rule that she didn’t want to break.)

…

He gets her off like that, tongue and lips and fingers. She’s so wet when he pulls back that the lube on the condom isn’t strictly necessary; when he pulls her hips up into his lap, holds one thigh back by her ear, the slide is long and deep and easy.

She sighs, settles.

She kicked his ass at the combine, but he has the strength for this, fucking her deep and almost rough. Her nails leave trails across his back that must hurt, the way he hisses with it, but he arches his back, doesn’t ask her to stop. She reaches between them, comes again with a few hard circles of her fingers. He swears into her neck, low and deep.

After, she slips a hand back between her legs, bites her lip. She’s a little swollen, sensitive, but the pressure feels reassuring.

“You’re going to go again?” he asks, almost in disbelief, and she shrugs.

“Aren’t you?”

His laugh isn’t one, really, more a huff of breath. “Maybe in an hour.”

She hums, considers. “Wake me when you’re ready,” she says.

…

(Coming in third doesn’t feel like a victory until the bronze medal settles around her neck.

The guys talk a big game about acceptance, how she’s just another player, but this—overperforming, dragging this team to a medal—this earns their respect, for real.

She grins into the camera and Charlie Coyle smacks a kiss on her cheek and slaps her on the ass, quick and efficient and _team._  

It’s not an excuse for World Juniors, not really, it’s not a do-over. McDavid’s not there, Noah’s not there, Matts’ not there.

But Jack is.)

…

He does wake her, an hour later, slides into her from behind and rocks there as she blinks awake.

“Okay?” He asks, and she takes his hand, guides it to her breast.

“Shut up,” she says.

She’s drowsing, drifting on it, and he keeps it slow, nothing but breathing in the dark.

She doesn’t come when he does, but she’s so close, right on the edge; when he drops his hand to her cunt, she pushes back on him.

“Just—” she says, still soft, and untangles from him, straddles his chest.

“Yeah,” he says, and guides her up. His hands are big enough that it’s nothing for him to cup her ass, guide her to his open mouth.

She has to hold the headboard for balance the way he tips her pelvis, an impossible, perfect angle that opens her to him. She doesn’t know if he can breathe like this; she doesn’t care. She rocks there, slow and sure, and it washes over her almost gently, long and rolling.

His face is wet with her. Half-jokingly, she licks up his chin when she settles back down beside him. He opens his mouth, turns it into a kiss, their first.

“Mmm,” he says, a low sound, and they sleep again.

…

He kisses her again in the morning, two minutes before her alarm, slow and not at all gentle. His hair is wet from the shower, and he’s redressed. He leaves without a word, and she rolls back over, tucks one hand under her pillow and one between her legs.

…

(When Sid Crosby got drafted, she wore a suit and a ponytail and a frightened little smile. Her name got called first and people almost forgot to clap.)

…

Jessie bitches her out for sleeping late, plugs in the curling iron and beats Jack with a pillow until she pulls the robe back on and stumbles into the bathroom.

Her hair is a mess and she smells like sex and there are two used condoms in the trash. Jessie raises her eyebrows like only an older sister can, and they both cross themselves in gratitude that their parents didn’t come up.

Jessie helps her re-curl her hair into a more acceptable tangle, helps her paint on eyeliner sharp as a blade and lipstick the color of blood.

Jack is not Sid Crosby.

They all have their armor. This lipstick is as much hers as her shoulder pads, as her skates, as her stick.

…

(Jack’s met Sid Crosby before, has shaken her hand. She’s… nice. That’s the party line.

Jack much prefers the version she’s only seen glimpses of, the woman who screams on the bench and gets away with outrageous shit on the ice and tells reporters that she hates that team, yes, every last one.

Jack likes the version that makes men bleed.)

…

Jack doesn’t tremble when they call her name. She smiles, genuinely, for the first time in a long time.

Her dad tells her he’s proud. Last year, he told her that he wasn’t sure she could make a living at it. It was kindness, in his own way, trying to tell her not to get her hopes up.

He’s proud, now. More importantly, Jack is.

She’s not afraid that she’ll trip on her heels, even with a room full of eyes on her, a million more at home. If they can’t trust her to walk fifty feet in stiletto heels, she figures, they shouldn’t trust her on skates, either.

If she didn’t like dancing on a knife blade, she wouldn’t play hockey.

…

(The Sabres brass, to be fair—or perhaps, unfair—try very hard to hide their doubts when she interviews.

They ask her what her strength is—“I’m underestimated,” she tells them.

A roomful of skeptical glances are exchanged.

“I like being underestimated,” she says. “It means they never try hard enough to beat me. I slip through the cracks. It makes winning…” _sweeter,_ she thinks. “Easier,” she says.)

…

The jersey, over her dress, looks better than anything else she’s worn.

In the greenroom, Dylan Strome approaches her with all the wariness of an easily spooked cat.

She’s not interested in making false apologies. Still, she hugs him, when he comes close enough, says, “alright, Stromer. That impressed me.”

…

There’s a single stall bathroom in one of the mazes of back hallways. She discovers this when Connor McDavid steers her towards it, looking over his shoulder.

“What?” She hisses, when he locks the door.

He drops to his knees.

This is her victory for today: on her draft day, Connor McDavid ate her out in his brand new Oiler’s jersey as she was perched up on the counter, skirt up around her waist, heels digging vicious spots into his back.

She doesn’t let him kiss her, after, just drags a thumb across his lower lip and then sucks it into her own mouth, lipstick leaving streaks up her knuckle.

“I’m starting to think you like that,” she says a little wryly, and glances down to where he’s tenting his slacks.

His smile is very small, a little crooked. “Later,” he says, and slips out the door.

…

(Jack gets more than a few messages, as it becomes clearer that she’s going to the NHL and going high.

Her favorite comes in the last day of the combine, from an unlisted number that she learns two days later belongs to Tyler Seguin:

 _kiss the boys and make them cry <3<3<3_)

…

Noah catches her arm in the hallway, laughs at whatever expression she’s wearing on her face.

“Hanny,” she coos, and hugs him in a sudden surge of fondness.

“Bagging two number one picks?” He says in her ear, away from the cameras. “That has to be some sort of record.”

“Hanny,” she says again, harsher this time, and pinches him under his jersey with her long nails.

“Proud of you, Eichs,” he says, and he doesn’t mean for the sex.

…

Later, Jack knocks on his door.

He answers in sweatpants and nothing else. The TV is playing coverage ad nauseam, and she catches the end of a particularly vicious rant directed her way.

“Sorry,” McDavid says, and turns it off. She shrugs.

“Orange never was my color,” she says.

His computer is on the desk, chair pulled out. She pushes him back into it, and he doesn’t protest. She holds his gaze when she steps out of her dress, naked underneath, and he puts his hands in her hair when she settles over him.

There’s a condom in his sweatpants pocket. She laughs at him, easily, openly, and he laughs along.

She kicked his ass at the combine. She’s strong enough to ride him like this.

Over his shoulder, there’s an ocean view.

…

(She picks up when her boys do, at BU. More often, probably, because they still think girls are some strange and mysterious species but she knows just how easy most men are.

She’s rarely the prettiest girl in the room, but she’s often the only one. Almost always the one with an attitude, hard earned, and Boston boys like that, too.)

…

After, breathing hard, he says into her neck, “I knew you’d be like this.”

“What,” she says, and her blood runs cold. She didn’t know he would be like this.

She should have. Men always are.

She pushes at his chest, stands. “What,” she repeats, “slutty?”

“No,” McDavid says, too loud, and catches her with an arm around her waist before she can go anywhere, pulls her back into his lap, back to chest this time. “Good,” he says, “Just…”

He gets a hand in her hair, tugs gently. She could get away if she wanted; curious, she lets him tip her head to the side. He puts his mouth to the nape of her neck, sucks hard enough that she cries out.

“You have sex like you play hockey,” he says, “confident and powerful and just… good. It gets me hot.”

“I can tell,” she says, fight draining away, and he bites over the new bruise and she squirms in his lap, straddles his thigh, rocks into it.

“Can you—?” He asks, and she almost laughs. She could tell him that, given her vibrator and a free evening and a bad loss to burn off, she could go eight, nine, ten times, and has before.

She rocks into his thigh again, something thrilling about the dirty grind. He holds her closer, bites at her neck again, and Jack sends up a quick prayer of thanks to whatever girls in Toronto or Erie or where-the-fuck-ever let Connor McDavid fumble through sex with them the first or third or tenth time to make him like this, better than she could have guessed meeting him.

Sex like this doesn’t just happen—Jack knows it, and so does the U Mich guy who thought she was older when he took her home that first time.  

She likes it, too, that she couldn’t have guessed it reading his press or knowing his public reputation, likes that he’s a real boy under all the hard work of his media team. She likes that he’s like her: imperfect.

He controls her pace, a tight arm around her waist, cups one breast with his free hand. “Can you come like this?” He asks, and she whimpers, embarrassingly, reaches between her own legs to give herself better pressure, just there.

She does come, then, head thrown back onto his shoulder, and he kisses her cheek, incongruously sweet.

…

(In Buffalo, at the combine, she has a room with a view.

Not much of one, admittedly. The city doesn’t have sweeping ocean views or dramatic mountain vistas or even much of a skyline to speak of.

But it’s her city, now. It’ll love her back, someday, if she has to fight and claw and scratch to make it happen.

She fights for what she has. She has to.)

…

They shower, eventually, late enough that Connor’s hard again, his thigh and fingers sticky with her. Jack presses her legs together, leans her forehead into the tile wall and lets him fuck her thighs until he comes.

He’s shaking, afterwards, and maybe that’s why she lets him pull her into an embrace, the two of them still under the running water.

Jack’s strong, and she hates to qualify it like everyone else wants to— _for a woman—_ but she is smaller than him, like this, naked and barefoot and pressed into him. Her head fits under his chin.

He has dark, dime sized bruises on his back where the spikes of her heels pressed into him earlier, legs hitched around his shoulders. They match the long, red welts from her nails, the bruise on her neck that she can cover, only just, if she wears her hair down.

She’s always liked her bruises, proof of a job well done.

She trails her fingers over her marks on him, cups his ass a little cheekily. It’s a decent ass, as far as hockey ones go. She’s seen her fair share.

“Would you let me fuck you?” She wonders out loud, curious and a little needling.

He drops his own hand, around her waist and between her legs, strokes at her cunt once, twice, where she’s still a little wet, nothing yet rinsed away by the shower, then drags his fingers up over her hole, presses there with the pad of a finger, teasing.

“Maybe,” he says, “would you?”

She reaches for the shampoo.

“Maybe,” she says.

…

(Jack isn’t sure that she can make it, not really, until she beats Connor McDavid.

He’s angry, afterwards, and Jack respects that. There’s something grudging in his eyes when he looks at her, after the game.

She shakes hands, good game, good game. One of his teammates pats her on her shoulder, over familiar, says, “Atta girl, Jackie,” and she just about growls at him.

Connor McDavid is last in line. He doesn’t look at her hair or her tits or her lips. He looks her in the eyes, and his are grey, edging on blue. “Good game, Eichel,” he says, and that’s it.)

…

They dress, slowly, quiet. Jack feels much older than her years, suddenly, and Connor acts it, too. They both moved away from home young. They haven’t been children in centuries.

He zips her dress up.

“Do you even like me, McDavid?” She asks, and regrets it almost immediately.

He regards her, gaze steady. She doesn’t know what answer she wants.

“I respect you,” he says.

…

(At World Juniors, Connor McDavid finds her in the back of the bar.

Her lips are wine red, her heels give her the advantage of inches and intimidation.

Guys find her scary, she’s been told again and again. She wears it like a badge of honor.

“Sorry about,” he says, tilts his head back to mean Virtanen.

“Are you?” Jack says.

Connor McDavid doesn’t blink.

“Can I give you some advice?” Jack says, and bullies on before he can answer, “don’t apologize for things that you aren’t sorry for.”

He nods, looks at his shoes. “That’s good advice,” he says, but they both know he won’t follow it. He’ll apologize for his teammates and for his losses and for himself until he’s blue in the face, because nobody beat the caring out of him like they beat it out of Jack with a thousand snide references to her tits, her cunt, her very self.

Jack snorts, ungracefully. “Don’t waste my time, McDavid,” she says. “Don’t come back unless you know what you’re doing.”)

…

As it turns out, that’s the answer she wants.

…

(At the end of the season, before they both fly to Vegas for the Awards, Jack gets a package in the mail. She knows before she even opens it that what’s inside will easily be the most expensive thing in her wardrobe, because the box says ‘Christian Louboutin.’

She very briefly considers outrage, and then she opens the box and reads the note that flutters out.

The soles of the shoes are Boston University Red, Canada Red, Blood Red. The heels are sharp enough to sink into someone’s soft places.

Her nails are long and sharp and painted as black as the patent leather.

 _Maybe you can wear these when you fuck me._ )

 

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell that this was written while listening to the Born to Die album on a loop? Sometimes a story falls into my head so quick and hard that I just have to pound it out. I did not anticipate writing this a few days ago (or any other het work basically ever), but here we are.
> 
> Just as a side note, any unflattering characterizations of minor characters is completely invented for ~literary~ purposes--I know next to nothing about these dude's real views and am not trying to slander anyone.
> 
> Drop me a line!


End file.
